Quentin looked as if his youngest son had slapped him. “You are calling yourself a… Harkonnen? What idiocy is this? Why now? Xavier died decades ago! Why reopen old wounds?”
“It is the first step toward righting a wrong that has endured for generations. I’ve already put into motion the legal documents. I hope you can respect my decision.”
His father looked intensely angry. “Butler is the most respected and powerful name in the League of Nobles. Ours is the family line of Serena, and of Viceroy Manion Butler— yet you prefer to associate yourself with a… traitor and a coward?”
“I do not believe Xavier Harkonnen was that.” Abulurd straightened, standing up to the primero’s obvious displeasure. He wished Vorian Atreides could be there to support him, but this was between himself and his father. “The history we were all taught is… distorted and inaccurate.”
Cold displeasure emanated from the older man as he stood from behind his desk. “You are of legal age, Cuarto. You are allowed to make your own decisions, regardless of what I or anyone else might think of them. And you must face the consequences.”
“I am aware of that, Father.”
“In these offices you will refer to me as Primero.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are dismissed.”
* * *
ABULURD SAT ON the bridge of his javelin, patrolling the swarms of ships crowded into parking lanes and docking orbits. Traffic-control operators in high stations monitored all vessels and maintained logs of how long each had been in transit. Since these ships did not use space-folding technology, each journey from an infected planet took weeks; if anyone had come aboard carrying the Scourge, the fast-acting retrovirus should have shown itself en route.
Aboard the rescue vessels, the League had isolated groups of people in sealed chambers as a stopgap measure, should an outbreak occur. After an appropriate time went by and the passengers passed inspection, they went through two additional decontamination processes before being allowed to disembark and settle in Salusan refugee camps. At some later date, they would be returned to their homeworlds or be distributed throughout the League.
As Abulurd patrolled the fringes of the system, he unexpectedly encountered a group of incoming vessels, expensive space yachts built for rich noblemen. He ordered his javelin to change course, interposing the military vessel between the unscheduled ships and Salusa.
When he established communication with the lead space yacht, Abulurd stared at the lean, bright-eyed man on the screen. A group of well-dressed people stood behind him. “I am Lord Porce Bludd, formerly of Poritrin, bringing refugees— all of them healthy, I guarantee— “
Abulurd drew himself up straight, wishing he had changed into a formal presentation uniform. “I am Cuarto Abulurd… Harkonnen. Will you submit to required quarantine procedures and medical inspection, so we can verify what you say?”
“We are prepared for that.” Bludd now blinked in sudden realization. “Abulurd, did you say? You’re Quentin’s son, aren’t you? Why are you calling yourself a Harkonnen?”
Taken aback by the man’s recognition, Abulurd drew a breath. “Yes, I am the son of Primero Butler. How do you know my father?”
“Along time ago, Quentin and I worked together building New Starda on the banks of the Isana River. He spent a year there on military furlough, as a jihadi engineer. That was well before he married your mother.”
“Has the Scourge appeared on Poritrin?” Abulurd asked. They had received no reports from that world.
“A few villages, but we’re relatively safe. Since the great slave revolt, Poritrin’s population centers have been scattered. I immediately issued isolation decrees. We had plenty of melange to go around— second highest per-capita consumption in the League, next to Salusa itself.”
“So why have you come here?” Abulurd still had not moved his javelin out of the way. Bludd’s convoy remained stalled.
The nobleman’s eyes seemed intense with echoes of deep grief. “These families agreed to sacrifice all their accumulated fortunes. Added to my own, I intend to turn that wealth to humanitarian endeavors. The Bludd family has much to atone for, I believe. The Omnius Scourge is the worst crisis free humanity has faced since the Titans. If ever there was a time when I could help, it is now.”
Abulurd acknowledged the bravery and determination he saw in Bludd’s face. A long moment passed, and the lord grew impatient. “Well, are you going to let us through, Abulurd? I had hoped to disperse these passengers to quarantine stations before taking my ships to another planet where I can continue to help people.”
“Permission granted.” He instructed his navigator to withdraw from the defensive posture. “Let them through, into the quarantine queue.”
“Say, Abulurd, is your father still on Salusa?” Bludd asked. “I’d like to discuss my plans with him. He always had a good eye for fine-tuning an operation.”
“I believe he is still at headquarters in Zimia.” Quentin had not spoken to his son since dispatching him to his patrol duties.
“I’ll find him then. Now, young man, if you would be so kind as to escort me into Salusan orbit where I can deliver my charges? I may need your help navigating the bureaucratic tangle there.”
“Acknowledged, Lord Bludd. You’ll have plenty of time to send messages to my father while you’re waiting.” Abulurd turned his javelin about and led the way to Salusa Secundus.
* * *
TRAGEDY SEEMED TO strike daily. Among the refugee ships clustered above the capital planet, the news spread like wildfire: Scout ships had returned bearing terrible reports that four more League Worlds were inflamed with plague, suffering almost incomprehensible levels of loss. In some cities, where storms or rampant fires had struck and the weakened populations could not stand against natural disasters in addition to the Scourge, the death rate was nearly ninety percent.
Even more distressing was a shocking setback on one of the fully-loaded refugee ships. After surviving their extended isolation period, the weary passengers had emerged from their sterile chambers to await final inspection. The jihadi crew, its captain, and their mercenaries had joined the relieved and excited refugees, offering celebratory drinks. A crew of medical personnel arrived and routinely administered the final verification blood tests, so confident in the amount of time that had passed that they grew lax, mingling, talking, laughing, embracing.
To everyone’s horror, one man unexpectedly began showing initial signs of the RNA retrovirus. The doctors were astonished, running checks and double-checks of their blood test results. Three more passengers exhibited symptoms before the day was out.
By then all of the routine isolation procedures had been set aside in preparation for disembarkation, and many people— refugees, jihadis, mercenaries, and even some medical personnel— had been exposed. Going back to their isolation chambers would serve no purpose. A cordon of military ships surrounded the rescue vessel to prevent any shuttles from departing.
Abulurd was assigned this horrendous watchdog duty for four days, waiting, hearing the pathetic and desperate cries for help from those sealed aboard the infected ship. Melange rations were rushed through the airlock, and the passengers fought over the spice, desperate to grab any chance at immunity.
The tragedy of it gnawed at his very soul. These people had all thought they were clean; now many of them would not survive to set foot on Salusa Secundus. And the jihadis and doctors— who should never have been in real danger, who had only been doing their jobs to protect others from the Scourge— would pay too high a price for briefly letting down their guard. There was nothing more Abulurd or any of the League scientists could do except keep the ship sealed and wait.
In anguish, he sat back listening to the letters transmitted by the refugees before they fell ill, hoping to preserve some reference to themselves or leave a message for their loved ones.
Abulurd’s crew was deeply disturbed, and morale plummeted. He was about to block out the transmis
sions, but then caught himself. He would not turn a deaf ear to these poor people and their suffering. He would not pretend that they did not exist, nor would he ignore their hopeless plight.
He considered this small tribute a brave thing, something Xavier might have suggested. Abulurd only hoped that someday his crew, and his family, would understand why he’d done it.
Technology should have freed man from the burdens of life. Instead, it imprisoned him.
— RAYNA BUTLER,
True Visions
After more than a month of rampaging death, some might have drawn hope from the fact that Parmentier was reaching the end of its epidemic. The genetically modified RNA retrovirus was unstable in the environment and had degraded over the weeks, and the only new cases now came from unprotected contact with those who were ill.
The Omnius Scourge had run its course on the planet. The susceptible were already infected, and between a third and a half of them were dead. The final casualty count would likely never be known.
* * *
WITHIN DAYS OF beginning her work, Rayna Butler’s mission grew too large for her.
Inside every building, every home, every business, every factory, she discovered evil machines, sometimes in the open and sometimes in shadows. But she found them. Her arms ached from methodically swinging her cudgel. Her hands were covered with bruises and cuts from flying glass and metal, and her bare feet were abraded and sore, but she did not pause. Saint Serena had told her what she must do.
More and more people watched her, first as entertainment, confused as to why she would direct so much destruction toward conveniences and innocuous appliances. But finally others began to understand her obsession and started smashing machines with joyous anger. For so long they had been helpless to strike back that they now turned against any manifestation of their great enemy. At first, Rayna simply went on her way, doing little to lead those who followed in her wake.
When she was unexpectedly joined by the surviving Martyrists, already intense fanatics willing to throw away their lives as Saint Serena herself had done, Rayna’s ragtag band became more organized, and suddenly swelled. In the haunted streets of Parmentier, the new movement was unstoppable.
The Martyrists plodded after the ethereal girl, waving pennants and holding staffs high, until finally Rayna turned to them in confusion. Climbing atop an abandoned groundcar, she called out, “Why do you waste your time and energy carrying those banners? Who are you performing for? I don’t want to see flags and colors. This is a crusade, not a pageant.”
She jumped down and pushed into their midst. Confused, they made way to let the pale, hairless girl through. Rayna tore away a large fabric banner and handed the bare staff back to a man. “There. Now use this to smash machines.”
She did not care who these people were or what motivated them, as long as they aided her cause. The girl’s thin voice took on an added hardness, a tone of unshakable belief. “If you have survived this plague, then you are chosen to assist me.”
Several Martyrists lowered their banners and tore them away from the poles, which they could now use as clubs and crowbars. “We are ready!”
The bald girl faced them with a childlike earnestness, exuding a primal power from her translucent, fever-damaged skin. Her words surrounded her like an aura, and the listeners began to sway. Rayna had never practiced to become a great speaker, but she had heard enough sermons with her mother, had listened to the recorded oratory of the charismatic Grand Patriarch Iblis Ginjo, had heard her father and grandfather give military rallies. “Look all around you! You can see the curse of the demon machines. Look at the insidious marks they have left upon our land, our people.”
The throng murmured. In the empty buildings around them, the windows were dark, many of them smashed. The remnants of a few rotted, unburied bodies lay in the streets and alleys.
“Even before the Demon Scourge struck, the machines inched their way into our lives under our very noses, and we allowed it to happen! Sophisticated machines, calculational devices, mechanical assistants— yes, we pretend that we’ve gotten rid of all robots and computers, but their cousins are among us everywhere. We can no longer tolerate any of that.”
Rayna raised her crowbar, and her followers shouted.
“When I was struck down by the fever, Saint Serena herself came to me and told me what we must do.” The girl’s eyes filled with tears, and she became wistful. “I can see her face now, beautiful, glowing, surrounded by white light. I can hear her words as she revealed God’s supreme commandment to me— ‘Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of the human mind.’” She paused, then raised her voice without shouting: “We must obliterate any sign of them.”
One of the Martyrists picked up the shreds of a colorful banner. “I saw Serena Butler in a vision, too! She came to me.”
“And to me,” cried another man. “She is still watching over us, guiding us.”
The followers clacked their staffs and bars together, anxious to go about the destruction. But Rayna had not yet finished her speech. “And we must not disappoint her. The human race cannot give up until we achieve total victory. Do you hear me? Total victory.”
A man shouted, “Destroy all thinking machines!”
A shrill woman, whose face was streaked with scratches as if she had tried to claw out her own eyes, wailed, “We have brought our own pain upon ourselves. We have left our cities wide open to the Demon Scourge because we were not willing to take the necessary action.”
“Until now.” Rayna wagged a finger at them. “We must eradicate any computer, any machine, no matter how innocuous it may seem! A complete and total purge. Only that way can we save ourselves.”
She led her agitated followers deeper into the death-filled city. Waving cudgels and mallets, the mob swept forward. Their fervor rose as they descended on factories, industrial centers, and libraries.
Rayna knew it was just the beginning.
* * *
THE VANDALS AND fanatics only compounded the misery inflicted by the epidemic and all the subsequent breakdowns in Parmentier society, as far as Raquella was concerned. Misdirecting their hatred of the thinking machines, the wild extremists targeted every semblance of technology, eradicating even sophisticated devices that helped people. They shut down Niubbe’s intermittently functioning public transportation system, along with much of the electrical grid and communications network.
As she struggled to aid the last plague sufferers after the power went out in the hospital, Raquella could not comprehend the delusions. Did these Martyrist lunatics really think they were hurting Omnius by using rocks, crowbars, and clubs to pummel benign machines?
Every day more of them gathered outside the overcrowded medical center, looking at the large building with a strange, glazed hunger. Many shook their fists and screamed threats. In order to protect the hospital, Mohandas had positioned as many armed guards as he could hire or bribe at every entrance….
In a daze from the unending cycles of work and inadequate rest, Raquella stumbled down a corridor to a heavy door at the far end, wearing a breather over her mouth and nose. So far, she had been careful to protect herself from the obvious vectors of infection, but it would be so easy to make a small and deadly mistake. Her face, hair, and clothes always reeked of antivirals and disinfectants. Though she and Mohandas consumed whatever spice they could, just to keep themselves going, the supplies had dwindled to almost nothing.
She hoped Vorian Atreides would return soon. Isolated here on Parmentier, none of them had any idea what was happening out in the rest of the League of Nobles.
Now Raquella entered a large walk-in vault, the most secure room in the hospital. The vault door was partly open, which surprised her. Hospital rules dictated that it be kept closed and locked. Everything had grown so lax, so slipshod.
Cautiously, she pushed the heavy metalloy door, making the hinges groan softly. Inside, a startled man looked up.
“Dr. Tyrj! What are you
doing?”
His face flushed behind his clearplaz breather as he tried to cover what he’d been doing, but Raquella had already glimpsed hidden pockets in his work smock crammed with doses of melange powder from the last supplies of spice kept in the hospital.
Every hospital worker received an allocation for personal use, since the spice protected them from the Scourge. But this was much more melange than any one person was allowed.
The small, wiry man tried to push past her. “I don’t know what you mean. Now get out of my way. Patients are waiting for me.”
She stopped him cold with a stiff forearm to the middle of his chest. “You’re selling spice, aren’t you?”
“Certainly not!” His left hand dipped into a side pocket, and she saw something glint as he started to bring it out.
With a swift knee to his midsection, Raquella doubled him over. A scalpel fell from his hand, clattering on the floor. She shouted for help as Tyrj lay groaning. She heard running footsteps in the corridor, and Mohandas appeared. Alarmed, he looked at Raquella, making sure she was all right. She pointed to the spice that had tumbled out of the doctor’s hidden pockets.
“I can explain this.” Tyrj struggled to his feet and tried to regain his dignity.
Mohandas touched a panel on the wall of the vault, summoning his hired security men while Tyrj babbled excuses, indignant instead of ashamed. Roughly, Suk emptied the doctor’s pockets, pulling out packet after packet of valuable spice. He stared in disbelief at the sheer amount of melange the other man had attempted to steal.
“You are disgusting,” Raquella said to him as two security officers arrived. “This is selfish betrayal, not just thievery. You’re a traitor to the people you were supposed to help. Leave this hospital.”
“You can’t afford to lose my services,” Tyrj protested.
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 18
